


The Janus

by Chris_Quinton



Series: The Janus [1]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Sort Of, Time slip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Bodie is trapped in a coma, and he's sharing a parallel life. Centuries ago, someone is trying to kill Caius Marcellus Niger - Bodie must find out who and why. But he’s alone, and nothing is the way it seems.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: The Janus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941235
Kudos: 11





	The Janus

**Author's Note:**

> Just remembered that one of my stories rewritten from two Very Old fanfics, is now self-published, so I can safely put the originals up on AO3 without offending the copyright Gods and their publisher-priests. So here is the first one. If folks are interested, The Janus and Leap in the Dark were combined into one ebook under the title of Paradox, and is up on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited.

"--and for all you lucky drivers on the M4, an accident between Junctions 17 and 18, involving three articulated lorries, has completely blocked the eastbound lane. There’s already a two mile tailback, folks, and the police say it’ll be at least an hour before the road is cleared--" Bodie swore and switched off the radio. More delays he could do without.

‘Drive me home, Bodie?’ Carol had murmured in his ear, ‘stay over a while?’ And with a three-day weekend leave due to him, he’d done just that. To Rangeworthy, north of Bristol.

That was Thursday night, this was Monday early evening, and he should have started his shift at 0800 hours that morning. He’d left Rangeworthy at just before four, soon enough to reach London by the required time and with a bit to spare. However, he’d got as far as Iron Acton, heading for the M4, when the Capri’s differential had packed in.

A five minute hike had found a telephone box with, miraculously, not only a working phone, but also enough left of a battered Yellow Pages to provide him with the nearest 24 hour call-out garage. With the tow-truck on its way, Bodie had then phoned CI5. Murphy was on the graveyard shift, and he didn't need that operative's lugubrious announcement that the Cow would not be pleased.

Cowley’s displeasure was evident when he'd phoned in again at seven a.m. to pass on the workshop's estimated time for repair. He would be lucky to make London by midnight. A message had been left for him, and Suzie relayed it with due sympathy; he could either have the lost day docked from his remaining holiday entitlement, or take it as unpaid leave. Before Bodie could give vent to his rancour, his money ran out and the line went dead.

And after kicking his heels all day, now this. Still, if he left the motorway and cut across country, he shouldn’t lose too much time. So he took the first turning off to the south, and put his foot down.

###

Bodie was a fast and skilful driver, and the Capri streaked along the unfamiliar country roads at a calculated, reckless pace. Dusk had fallen, that transitional twilight where headlamps made little difference, and visibility was occasionally lessened by skeins of mist in the river valleys. But it did not slow him down.

Luckily for him, the roads were deserted, and a swift glance at the dashboard clock told him he was making pretty good time, considering. Full night was coming swiftly, heralded by storm-clouds and the first few heavy drops of rain began to splatter on the windscreen. Within minutes the deluge struck, and he was forced to ease up on the accelerator.

The storm was short and sharp, leaving the air clearer, and the road awash with more water than the soak-aways could cope with. A long straight stretch opened up in front of him, and Bodie increased his speed. A turning north soon would take him back to the motorway with the blockage well behind him. If he was lucky.

But then his luck ran thin. Suddenly the oar was drifting, aquaplaning, and. there was little he could do except go with it and pray his wheels would bite before--his nearside hit the high verge, lifting the car into a screeching, sliding roll across the tarmac. It slammed onto its wheels, hurtled sideways and down into thick undergrowth beyond the road. The Capri finally came to rest against an oak tree, tail and rear wheels in a stream, nose pointing up to the bush-lined crest of the bank. Above the clatter of partially dammed water, no other sounds could be heard.

###

Bodie blinked his eyes open. It wasn’t easy, because something was gluing his lashes together. But he couldn’t see much for his efforts. There was an impression of something very close to his face, and he seemed to be lying on his back--he started to move, and pain exploded through him. The choked cry of agony rang in his head as if it came from someone else. Surely he couldn’t have made it through the clenching talons that closed on his body.

He lay still, panting in shallow gasps, and struggled to retain both consciousness and memory. Aquaplaning--rolling impact-- The pain gradually receded to a bearable level, leaving him reasonably clear-headed. Coherent enough to take stock of his situation, at least.

It hurt, but he could move arms and legs, if only to a limited extent. Nor did he get that sharp, splintering pain when he drew a careful deeper breath. Bruises and strains, he decided. He couldn’t raise his left arm above shoulder-level, but his right was mobile, and he investigated the throbbing areas on his head.

Several lumps were swelling under his scalp, and a cut on his forehead had provided enough blood to coat eyes and face. His movements dislodged beads of glass from the shattered screen, and they fell about him, rattling on exposed metal. It reminded him belatedly of fire risk, then he realised that if the car was going to go up in smoke, it would have done it at the time of the crash. Whenever that was.

His physical state assessed as best he could, Bodie attempted to extricate himself. His groping right hand found the roof depressed to scant inches above his face, the steering wheel leaned against his chest, and the dashboard had come down to cut into his thighs. One foot seemed to be trapped between brake and accelerator pedal.

The conviction began to grow in him that he wasn’t going to be able to get himself out. It spurred him to fresh efforts. Ill-judged efforts, for the pain suddenly flared to new heights. He could neither cry out nor breathe, and unconsciousness crashed over him like a falling wall.

Awareness returned slowly, and Bodie lay for a while relishing the comfort of the bed. He felt heavy, lethargic, oddly detached from himself; a familiar experience. He’d regained consciousness in enough hospital recovery rooms to recognise drug-induced and painless ease, He drowsed, half-listening to the muted sounds of bustle beyond his room, too lazy to even think of opening his eyes. Time enough for that when discomfort made rest impossible. Sleep and relaxation were the best healers.

Somewhere nearby children’s voices were raised in sudden altercation, to be abruptly hushed by an adult’s hissing whisper. Bodie smiled to himself. Camilla and Aurelia were still quarrelling over that damned puppy.

Camilla? Aurelia?

Who the hell were they?

He opened his eyes to an ochre ceiling bordered in geometric designs in terracotta red, sombre in the dimness of’ the room. He blinked at it. A little avant garde for your usual hospital, he decided, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Either way, it was enough to distract him from the unfamiliar names, and he tried to sit up.

He failed. Bandages swathed his chest, his left arm was heavily wrapped, so was his right ankle and foot. His head also sported linen bands, but the discoveries paled to insignificance as his astounded eyes took in the rest of the room’s decor. The walls were painted, and not in Vymura silk emulsion.

Despite the gloom, bright earth-colours glowed, the frescoes designed to look as if he gazed out of colonnades onto different scenes that were more Mediterranean than English. Nymphs, voluptuous to the point of being overweight, tripped with ponderous grace among glades of trees. Improbable sea-beasts poised coyly in a wash of waves while a plump and smirking Venus rose from detergent foam, draperies strategically clutched about her. Against a background of stylized hills, two hounds held a stag at bay. Formal gardens and vineyards were laid out under a blue and cloudless sky.

The claustrophobic effect was immediate, and it took a while for Bodie to realise that the carved wooden panels that separated five different vistas along one long wall were two sets of shutters and a double door. Another door was opposite, sandwiched between nymphs and stag, and about the walls stood some carved chests, a large plain table and a couple of basket chairs. A litter of cups, many small jars and pots, and a good-sized jug were on the table. A low pile of folded cloths was beside them, and the still air was heavy with the scent of herbs.

The ceiling and walls were devoid of light fittings.

Bodie pushed himself to an awkward sitting position, the alarm bells in his head cutting through the fog of drug, and he lifted away the sheet that covered him. But for the bandages he was naked, and there was no sign anywhere of clothes, watch, shoes--his gun. On- or off-duty, the snub-nosed .357 went with him, and he wanted it within reach now. This was no hospital that he’d ever seen.

He set his sights on the nearest chest, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. It was much lower that he expected, and it took a lot of effort to get to his feet. His balance was precarious, his vision began to blur out of focus, but he lurched painfully towards his goal.

He didn’t hear the door open, just hurrying footsteps and a rush of incomprehensible words. He spun as hands caught at him, tried to swing a punch, but coordination was gone. Instead he clutched a fistful of clothing for support, was wrapped in a strong embrace and half-carried back to the bed.

Thankfully Bodie leaned his weight on Demetrius’ shoulder, and let himself be settled on the pillows. 

Demetrius?

Who the hell was Demetrius?

He struggled to focus on the features bent over him, got an impression of a concerned young face topped by a neat cap of light brown hair, then fog closed in around him and he slipped out of consciousness.

###

When Bodie next awoke, sporadic moonlight was filtering through clouds and branches. He was momentarily disorientated, then the jigsaw pieces fell back into place. That was a lulu of a dream. But then, concussion and shock could cause some very strange reactions. He pushed it aside as unimportant. The here and now needed all his attention.

The pain had retreated to a bearable level, and Bodie was able to assess his situation. The car had come to rest at an acute angle, and he was trapped in his seat like an astronaut on the launching pad. Except that the Capri wasn’t going anywhere without outside help.

Gritting his teeth Bodie groped for and found the transmitter mike, balanced it in easy reach, and fumbled with the wave band selector. He had problems, since he had to reach across his body with his good arm, twisting as much as he could against the combined hazards of severely bruised ribs, crumpled car and jammed seatbelt.

The crackle of static and the odd word were all the reward Bodie needed. Using total concentration, he managed to locate and tune in to the local police band. Judging by the quality of the reception, he was either on the very edge of their range, or more likely, his equipment wasn’t functioning as it should. He was lucky to have this much. If he couldn’t get hold of them, he’d try for the CB channels. God knows there were enough illegal sets around, someone should pick up on him. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the transmit button, and broke in.

Half an hour later, his voice was harsh and slurred, vertigo swung him on an off-centre axis, and the mike dropped from shaking fingers. Waves of pain dragged over him, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Bloody marvellous. Stuck in the position he was, he’d probably drown in his own vomit.

"CI5 3.7." The words filtered through static and nausea. "CI5 3.7, come in. Report your status. Do you require assistance?"

Exasperation gave him new strength. He got hold of the mike. Too bloody right he required assistance.

"Car’s crashed, and I can’t get out," he said. "You’ll need lifting gear, cutting equipment and an ambulance. I’m on an unclassified road south of the M4, about ten miles east of Netherford. There’s a two-mile stretch, straight as an arrow, and I’m down the bank off the road--" Not the most coherent report he’d given, but--

"Do not copy, 3.7. Please repeat." The words were almost lost in static. He repeated, feeling the creeping greyness encroaching again.

"Do not copy clearly, 3.7. Please retune your transmitter."

A gasping curse of fury and frustration broke from him, and when he reached for the selector, abused muscles would not cooperate. He fell back, crowing for breath.

"C15 3.7, please retune to--" An explosion of static cut out the words. It seemed to come from a long way off, and Bodie let the fog take him with a kind of thankfulness.

###

He floated in a warm dark limbo for a while, aware of quiet voices, gentle hands moving him. Another dream? But this time he could understand them, and identify the different speakers.

"--lucky. No bones broken. Cracked ribs, perhaps, but care and time will cure that." Silenus, the family’s physician.

Who? Bloody hell, here we go again.

"The head injuries, sir?" Demetrius once more, concern under the deferential tones.

"As far as I can tell, the skull is not fractured, but when he regains consciousness I can be more certain. If his sight is affected, or his speech, I must be told at once. When he does awaken, don’t let him fall asleep. At least, not until nightfall. You know what to look for?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Not the first time you’ve nursed him, is it? Light food, little and often. Now I’d better go and reassure the Lady Claudia, she’s already mourning her last son as dead, according to her women. Stay with him, Demetrius."

A door closed, pots clattered, then a damp cloth moved lightly over his face and throat. It was cool, astringent, with a faint summery scent. Very pleasant, Bodie decided. He seemed to have dreamed himself up a family and a batman--no, a slave--and he wondered what Freudian interpretation could be put on that. Did he have a father as well as sisters and a mother?

The answer came with a hazy image of a grim-faced middle-aged cripple of a man bearing a certain resemblance to one William Henry Bodie, deceased. But the name was Marius. Marius Marcellus Niger. Ancient Rome and Fellini orgies? Bodie thought and settled back to enjoy the dream.

As if his relaxation and acceptance had opened a door, he became conscious of another identity, a drowsy, confused awakening in his mind.

"Demetrius?" he heard himself mumble. It jolted him, and off-balance, he lost track of the dream. The reply was in a language he didn’t know, though it sounded vaguely like Italian. He answered it--no, someone answered, and again he couldn’t understand. It annoyed him. This was his dream, sod it, he ought to know what the hell was going on in it. He made a conscious effort to relax; listen, and understanding came with the abruptness of a thrown switch.

"--day, sir," Demetrius said. "I brought you home just before dusk last night."

It was like watching a poorly made film that relied on clever-clever camera techniques; point-of-view shots for all its scenarios. He saw a straight road on a raised foundation, the curve of a chariot rail, two bay ponies cantering, the back of Demetrius’ head and shoulders. Then nothing, as if the film had broken.

"What happened?"

"We lost a wheel, sir. You were thrown down the bank."

"Don’t remember," Caius muttered. Caius Marcellus Valens. What kind of a name was that? Damn near as bad as his own collection. Couldn’t he have thought up a better lot, for God’s sake?

"You struck your head, sir."

"Oh." Well, both of him knew about concussion. But it was difficult to keep tabs on the newcomer, far easier to slip into sleep--tune in for our next instalment, same time, same place--

###

Bodie dreamed within a dream, flashbacks of Caius’ life interspersed with his own. They’d both known Africa, though Caius had spent his time in the north. He’d served there during his Tribuneship with the III Augustan Legion. Sitting in the front row of the stalls, as it were, Bodie was increasingly irritated with this alter-ego he seemed to have created.

The set-up of the Roman Army was fascinating, the people and situations Caius had encountered likewise, but the man had little grasp of tactics and strategy. Oh, he could follow orders, was damned good at admin, but didn’t know how to use his initiative. He had his whole life mapped out for him by others, and was content that it should be so. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the Paras, let alone the SAS or C15. The opportunities he’d thrown away--

On the other hand, he’d done very well for himself, thank you, without having to lift a finger. Two elder brothers had died, and he was the only surviving male child. He’d inherit the lot when the old man popped off; villas in Gaul, Italy and Britannia, town houses in Massilia, Rome, Aquae Sulis. All told, he was worth a packet. Or would be, one day.

But as plots went, it was pretty boring. Even with the Legion Caius had seen little real action, mainly policing duties and border-guarding. He was married to a reasonably attractive woman at present in Rome, didn’t drink that much, enjoyed gambling, but not to excess, and didn’t appear to have any interesting vices. Bodie was disgusted.

It surprised him a little that this character had such a detailed background, but he didn’t question it. Dreams could be pretty weird at times. Everyone knew that, and he'd had some lulus in his time that made this one pale to insignificance.

"Sir? Wake up." A hand on his good shoulder shook him carefully. "You should not sleep." 

Bodie opened his eyes. Demetrius looked tired himself, and there was a glitter of anger in the blue eyes. "I’m all right," he said automatically. It must have come out in a language the slave could understand, because he smiled.

"Of course, sir." Bodie caught the amused tolerance, and dug a few facts out of Caius’ memory. The two men had been born in the same year, and Demetrius had been chosen at an early age to be trained as Caius’ body-slave. From then on, they had grown up together. Mater and slave on the surface, underneath was a strong bond of affection.

All very nice, but this was a bloody boring script. Losing interest, he withdrew a little way, let Caius get on with his own life without interference. He wondered, though, what had annoyed Demetrius. Caius didn’t seem to notice. Come to think of it, the man did not appear to be aware of Bodie, either.

###

The aroma of food roused Bodie, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for some time. To his surprise, he wasn’t in bed, but standing at the open shutters, leaning on Demetrius’ shoulder and looking out over the neat formal gardens of the central courtyard. The wave of vertigo that heralded his awakening faded before the slave could notice it, and he let himself be helped to the table. Movement was painful, and, logically enough, the injuries that caused the acute discomfort corresponded to the ones he’d collected coming off the road in the Capri.

However, discomfort aside, the injuries did not seem to be serious. His left arm was in a sling, but from the feel of it the only damage was a strained shoulder muscle. The crack on his head could prove to be a little more of a problem. But he had been lucky, okay. He could have broken his neck. Or rather, Caius could have. His alter ego appeared to have retreated into a coma, and he inspected his memory of the hours since he’d first awoken. He hadn’t missed much. Caius had been singularly untalkative, which did not seem to surprise Demetrius.

"Are you all right?" Bodie said. Caius hadn’t asked that.

"Yes, sir," the slave said, "Only bruised, scraped. The horses aren’t hurt either."

"Good. What exactly happened? Wheels don’t fall off without cause."

"The offside axle pin sheared," The anger was back in evidence, and Bodie pricked up his ears.

"Oh?" he drawled, suspicious nature jumping to the obvious conclusion. "It had been tampered with?"

"Tampered?" Demetrius stared at him, pale with horror. "No, sir! Negligence was bad enough, but deliberate-- No, sir!"

"Whose negligence?" Bodie demanded, ignoring the rest of the denial.

"Brennus. He forged the pins, replaced them two months ago, when the chariot was repainted and varnished for your arrival, sir. He’d not taken enough care with the forging, and one pin was flawed."

"Where is he?" In spite of his hunger, he did not take any notice of the bowl of soup put in front of him. "I want to talk to him." Perhaps the plot was looking up.

"You can’t, sir," Demetrius said. "He’s not here."

"What? Why not?"

"Your father has sent him to Glevum to be sold on. He’s lucky not to have been nailed to a cross." he added, a vindictive bite to his voice.

"Damn. All right, Demetrius, I want that axle pin. Can you get it?"

"The--?" The slave stared at him, then lightly touched his cheek, taking his pulse with the other hand.

"There's nothing wrong with me." Bodie suffered the inspection with impatience. "It's a souvenir. Where is it?"

"Well, your father has the shank, I think. But the head is probably out on the road."

"I want both parts of it."

"But, sir--"

"Both parts, Demetrius."

"Master Caius,"

"Don’t Caius me." Bodie fixed him with a cold, bleak eye. He was almost certainly acting out of character for the poor fool, but this was his dream, and he’d write the script. "Humour me. And don’t tell anyone where you’re going or what for."

"Not even your father?"

"That’s right. I don’t want him worried." Marius was an unknown factor at the moment, but Caius was not easy in the crippled man's presence. He had a healthy fear and respect for his sire, but no love. Besides, Bodie wanted a free hand in this. "Don't disobey me, Demetrius. Even for my own good."

"I--no, sir. But I shouldn’t leave you alone. Silenus said--"

"Yes, I know. Where is my father?"

"In the bath."

"Go and get the pin. If you’re challenged, tell ‘em I sent you to ask my father if I can see him. The head you can get tomorrow."

"But--"

"Now, Demetrius," he snapped. It was a bark of command, and the slave obeyed automatically.

The soup and fresh bread made a pleasant snack, and Bodie wolfed it down. He could have done with more, but would have to wait until Demetrius came back. On an impulse he crossed to a chest, lifted the lid and rummaged through the neatly packed contents for the small bronze mirror he ‘remembered’ was in there somewhere. He wanted to see what Caius looked like.

The reflection was a little blurred, but was clear enough to give him a shock. He’d expected an identical twin, After all, if he’d put himself in a Roman setting, he’d still look like himself. But it was the dissimilarities that were surprising. Under his usual neat crop of dark hair, brown eyes stared back at him from a younger face. And although the arch of the brows, shape of mouth and jaw, were all his own, the thin aquiline nose was not. He did not consider it an improvement on the original. He put the mirror away, then hunted through the chests for weapons. There were none.

"Caius!" Demetrius caught hold of him. "Sir, you should be resting!" Bodie let himself be ushered back to the bed.

"I have rested," he said. "I’m also still hungry. Did you get it?"

"Yes. No one saw me."

"Good man." He took the chunk of metal and limped over to the window to examine the broken end in better light. "Where's the other pin? Still on the axle?"

"Yes, I suppose so, sir." Then, "do you want that one as well?"

Bodie flashed him a grin. "Right first time."

"I’ll see what I can do. Caius, please come back to bed and rest?"

"Ah, but I might fall asleep, and we don’t want that, do we?" He turned the pin, and the sun’s rays struck glints from the fresh break. The flaw-pattern was easily seen, and it seemed light for its size. Not to be wondered at, he decided, in a technology a couple of thousand years or so away from modern developments.

Faulty manufacture may not have been deliberate, but did not preclude the possibility that a known flawed piece had been substituted for a good one. How many enemies did Caius have? Who stood to benefit from his death? And where was Ray Doyle and his devious policeman’s mind when he needed him?

If he was denied an orgy, he’d settle for a whodunit.

He couldn’t exactly question the main protagonist, but the man’s memories were open to inspection. So Bodie lurched back to the bed and stretched out with a sigh of relief. A long soak in a hot bath followed by a massage wouldn’t come amiss, but it would have to wait a while.

Somewhere along the line his concentration wavered, and he drifted into sleep. But he took with him the certainty that he’d found the key. Marius Marcellus had one brother, Quintus. He was a brisk, somewhat acerbic man with a lively, if caustic sense of humour that was in direct contrast to the older and dour Marius.

Since the latter’s accident five years ago--a fall from a horse that had left him partially crippled--Quintus had taken over the major part of his duties. He was a rich man in his own right, had properties in Gaul and Britannia, ran them all with ruthless efficiency. Long ago he had become more of a father to Caius than Marius had ever been. Had given the boy his first hunting dog, his first horse, his first woman. Consequently, as far as Caius was concerned, the sun rose and set with his uncle.

For Bodie, he was suspect number one. With the only surviving nephew out of the way, Marius would need little persuading to will his estates to his dutiful and supportive brother, all but the girls’ dowries. Caius’ own child was a girl, and sickly at that, his wife having so far failed to produce a son. Nor would Marius sire any more offspring; his accident had rendered him impotent. The hooves that had broken thigh and pelvis had damaged genitals as well.

Dear old Uncle Quintus. Maybe he’d arranged that accident as well. And the early demise of Caius’ brothers? Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.

The uncle dunnit. Made a change from the butler.

So what was he going to do about it? He’d forgotten to provide himself with a Cowley to report to, or an oppo to work with.

Well, it was only a dream, so what did it matter?

###

It was a pleasant awakening. Muscle-strains and bruises were soothed to distant aches, his body felt vibrantly alive under the light massage, and the warm air was heavy with the clean scent of aromatic oils. His mind, though, seemed half-asleep.

"What did you say?" he muttered into his folded arms. Demetrius did not break his rhythm.

"That Silenus has said you’re fit to travel, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to Aquae Sulis."

"What do I want to go there for?" Bodie yawned.

"The healing spring, sir. The temple of Aesculapius?"

"Mnngh?"

"For your headaches, and losses of memory."

"What?" He propped himself up on an elbow.

"Your father is concerned, sir." Demetrius eyes him warily. "Your other injuries are healing well, but--"

"Concussion can take days to clear," Bodie pointed out. "Or didn’t Silenus tell him that."

"He did, but that was two weeks ago and still they trouble you."

"Two weeks?" He sat upright, and the slave’s wariness increased. "Bloody hell. The pins--you’ve still got them?"

"I--uh--"

"Demetrius--"

"You said you didn’t want them, couldn’t remember asking for them," he protested.

"So where are they?" Bodie demanded.

"In the chest in my room, sir."

"Thank God for that. Where’s Quintus?"

"With your father, sir," Demetrius answered. "Arranging the last details."

"Does anyone know about the pins?"

"No, sir."

"That’s a relief." Bodie smiled. "And you found the head from the broken one?"

"Yes."

"Well? You examined them, didn’t you?"

"Uh, no, sir. I wouldn’t know what I should be looking for." ‘If anything,’ his voice and expression said. Bodie frowned. Two weeks. The dream was getting away from him. Which was odd, since he had virtually written the script, cracked the case in the best Holmesian tradition. What the hell had Caius been up to?

Not a lot, he discovered, when he tapped into his memory. Except complain loud and long about headaches and missing days. Bodie’s estimation of his alter ego dropped a few more notches. "When do we leave?" he asked

"Tomorrow morning, at first light."

"That early?"

"The litters will set a slow pace."

"We could ride on ahead," Bodie said, ‘remembering’ the snails-pace invariably set by his parents. Demetrius hesitated.

"But you said--" he started and broke off. Belatedly, Bodie caught an echo of Caius’ contribution to the planned journey.

"That was yesterday. There is no way I am going anywhere in a litter," he snapped. "I’m either going on horseback or in a chariot. Preferably horseback."

"But, sir, you may not be fit enough for--"

"Then it’s time we found out," Bodie said impatiently." What time is it?"

"Just before noon, sir."

"Have a couple of horses saddled. We’re going riding as soon as we’re dressed."

"The Lady Claudia is expecting you to sit with her before the meal--"

"She can wait. Bring some food from the kitchen, we’ll eat out. Cheese, bread, fruit, something like that, Don’t just stand there, jump to it."

"Your clothes," the young man clutched at tunic and folded toga as if they were a lifeline to normality.

"I can dress myself, damn it! I’m not a bloody doll!" Bodie barked. "Who the hell taught you to obey orders? Jump!"

Demetrius disappeared at a run.

Bodie slid off the table, gave himself a cursory examination. Most of his bandages were no longer needed, and he dispensed with the one about his forehead as well. Cuts and scrapes were healthily scabbed, the bruises had faded to yellow-green, and the odd twinge of discomfort from ribs and shoulder could be ignored. He pulled the tunic over his head, belted it, and looked around for sandals. He was tying the last thong as Silenus entered.

"Good morning, Caius." There was a certain amount of caution in the physician’s voice, and Bodie’s smile was grim.

"'Morning," he drawled. He had no quarrel with the man; he was a distant relative of some kind, had learned his trade with the Legions, and was not a quack. He had been taken on as a permanent fixture after Marius’ accident, and had doctored Caius through a variety of illnesses and injuries.

"Is this wise?" Silenus asked quietly. "I said you were fit to travel, yes, but we agreed that the litter--"

"That, as I told Demetrius, was yesterday," Bodie said. "I’m feeling fine, and I’d sooner ride. Therefore today is a test-run, to see if I can cope with it. If I can’t, then it’s the chariot tomorrow."

"But--"

"No buts," he interrupted. He'd been doing a lot of that, he realised, and it felt good. "How the hell am I supposed to know what I can or can’t do unless I try it?"

"True, but in this case I don’t think it is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"You are not yourself."

"Headaches, memory-blanks, are symptoms of concussion. They’ll pass."

"Perhaps. If they don’t, we may have to try other remedies."

For some reason that sounded ominous. "Isn't that what tomorrow’s all about?"

"Yes, but it’s only one avenue we can explore. I’d like to examine you, do you mind?"

"You checked me over yesterday. I’ve not had a relapse overnight."

"It won’t take a moment."

Bodie studied the doctor. There was an air of determination about Silenus that made it clear he intended to have it his way, and the brown eyes under heavy dark brows were grim. Less time would be wasted if he was given free rein.

"Get on with it," Bodie sighed.

It didn’t take long. Silenus checked his pulse, examined eyes and ears, felt over his skull, then stood back. "Your vision is clear?"

"Yes.”

"No giddiness?"

"None."

"All right, Caius, have your ride. But if you become ill--"

"Demetrius will haul me back here so fast my ass will blister," Bodie snapped. "I’m not made of glass, man."

"Blows to the head can cause other, less easily understood problems. You are not yourself, Caius." There was a quiet warning in the level tones, and Bodie smiled.

"Then humour me, Silenus," he drawled. "You’re an ex-legionary doctor. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen personality changes follow head injuries before now."

"I’ve seen it happen," he agreed, and smiled himself, albeit unwillingly. "You’ve become an enigma, Caius Marcellus. Enjoy the ride."

Bodie gave him a half-mocking salute, and left for the stable yard before the man could start asking questions he was not prepared to answer.

###

Half an hour later, Bodie reined in on the crest of a hill and looked back. The villa complex lay below him, a collection of white walls and red tiled roofs around the central garden, with the farm buildings, barns and slave quarters off to one side. It covered a larger area than he had thought. Like Caius, he had taken for granted the cool comfort and luxury of his surroundings, missing only the modern necessity of flush toilets.

The Roman idea of bath-time more than made up for no hot water on tap, and he had quickly become used to the lavish frescos on virtually every wall throughout the house. Vaguely he wondered where he had got all the details from. He couldn’t remember seeing a film or reading a book recently that would have sunk so far into his subconscious to produce the wealth of colour and detail this dream was displaying.

"Caius?" Demetrius pulled up beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," Bodie said absently, gazing out over fields of ripening grain. "Not a bad view, is it?"

"No. The crops will be good this year, if the Gods are kind."

"Spare us from cloudbursts and drought, eh?" he smiled. "Incidentally, where are we going?"

"I thought you’d decided?" Demetrius grinned. Away from the villa, he had become more relaxed and less deferential.

"Just following the track." Bodie turned on the saddle-pad, looking away from the valley along the line of the hill. The land rose another hundred feet or so, and at the highest point, green ditches and banks had been laid out. The earthworks of an Iron Age settlement. Bodie had seen enough of them during his Army training days on Salisbury Plain to know that.

The track swung away down-hill into the next valley, but a long curving depression in the downland grass showed that there had once been a well-used road leading up to the enclosure.

"Come on," he said, and drove his heels into his horse’s ribs. Neck and neck the geldings hurtled up the slope, riders crouched low over flying manes.

###

Two hundred years or two thousand, it made little difference to ditches and ramparts. Timbers would have rotted into the ground within a generation or so, and the turf had long since encroached on any stonework. Between the banks acres of grass stood tall, no scrub had infiltrated there, though clumps of hawthorn patched the high bounds where palisades had once stood.

"We can get another hay crop from this," Demetrius observed. "They cut two a year, more often than not." Bodie had no interest in farming matters and did not answer. The hillfort held nothing for him, after all. He turned the gelding’s head back the way they had come, then stiffened. The hair prickled at the nape of his neck, and tension crawled down his spine. He was being watched.

Bodie spun round, but there was nothing to be seen, and precious few places where a man could hide. Unless he was a good guerrilla.

"What is it?" Demetrius stared at him, wariness and concern in his eyes.

"Someone's watching us," he said quietly. "God knows where they are, probably behind the bushes or the far side. When I give the word, circle left. I’ll go right, and we see who we can flush out. Go."

He did not give the slave time to argue, urged his horse across the expanse of grass towards the distant rampart.

No one was there. But an area of flattened grass behind a clump of thorn and briar showed where a man had lain. The blades were still lifting, so where the hell was he? Not even an Olympic champion could have got down and up the fifty foot sides of the ditch, and the incline was too steep for a horse. So where--

"Caius, let’s get out of here," Demetrius said. "He could be an outlaw, a renegade Briton, an escaped slave, anything. And all we have are knives."

"They can be pretty effective." Bodie slid off his horse and examined the crushed grass. He would have given much for a cigarette packet, discarded beer can, name and address--Something whistled past Bodie head, struck his horse on the shoulder. The animal squealed and reared, the reins flying away from Bodie's snatch. Another stone, thrown with more force than he would have thought possible, slammed against the gelding’s chest. The horse bolted, knocking Bodie aside as it ran.

"A slinger!" Demetrius yelled, trying to keep his plunging mount between Bodie and danger. At the same time, a figure broke from cover yards from the entrance, sprinting for the opening.

"Get after him!" Bodie bellowed, "He’s on foot, damn it! Run him down!"

"And leave you to any friends he may have?"

Bodie swore and lunged for him, dragged him from the saddle and sprang up in his place. But by the time he reached the track, the man had disappeared.

His own horse had not gone far. It was snatching nervously at the grass, ears twitching, nostrils distended. He rode over and scooped up the trailing reins, frowning as much in thought as anger. The man had been a native, that was certain. He’d been wearing tunic and trousers tucked into short boots. And used a .44 calibre sling.

If Bodie had taken either of those shots in the head, his brains would be in the grass. And a good slinger could hit a bird out of the air. Which meant it was not attempted murder, but a delaying tactic? Someone knew them both well enough to count on Demetrius not leaving him?

What the hell was going on?

Angry and uneasy, he rode back to where the slave was grovelling about by the bushes. For a moment he thought the man was hurt, but then he stood up, holding out two slingshot.

"As you collect axle pins, I suppose you’ll want these as well?" he said.

"Yes." Bodie took them, smooth river pebbles the size and shape of a pullet’s egg. "I doubt if the two incidents are connected, though. Even so, keep quiet about it."

"But, Caius--"

"He could have killed us both, if he wanted. Did you see enough of him to know him again?" Stupid question. Of course he hadn’t, any more than he had himself. Just an impression of leanness, a dark tangled head above brown-green tunic, and an athlete's swift economy of movement.

"--hurt?" Demetrius said, not for the first time, Bodie realised.

"No, I’m all right," he said, sliding off Demetrius’ horse. A renewed ache was in ribs and shoulder, but to mention it would have the slave fussing like a bloody hen, he decided. "Come on, we’re moving out. We can eat down by the river." He tucked the pebbles under his belt, remounted his own gelding and led the way out of the hill fort. Demetrius started to argue, but gave up after a short while.

Bodie didn’t hear him. The sense of unease was growing, shaking his complacent confidence that this was a common or garden dream. The clarity of detail; the reality of the horse moving between his thighs; the smell of equine sweat, meadow grass, and the oils on his skin; none of them had dreamlike quality about them.

There was also something very real about the fact that somebody wanted Caius dead. Maybe his original answer was too pat. What other factors were there that Caius, and therefore he, could not know about? Right then, he’d have handed over all of the man’s potential inheritance for his .357 and his partner.

###

They ate their food in the shade of willow trees while the horses grazed nearby. And instinct told Bodie that their watcher was back. Whoever he was, he was good, Bodie conceded. There was no sign of him at all. He said nothing to Demetrius, but they did not stay long once the light meal was over, heading back to the villa in the mid-afternoon.

For some reason, Bodie had not picked up a mental image of Quintus Marcellus. He was a name, an important part of Caius’ life, but the face had somehow eluded him. Consequently his first reaction when he rode into the stable yard and saw the sandy-haired figure emerge from the colonnade, was one of relief. The face, the hair, the eyes; all were Cowley's, and on one of his better days. But there was no Scottish accent, and no limp.

"Caius." The man stepped forward as he dismounted, and he was taken into an avuncular embrace that astounded Bodie. His grin of welcome became fixed, but he returned the greeting. This was Quintus, not George Cowley, and he would do well to remember it. "You’re well?"

"Perfectly." Bodie smiled with all his teeth. Dear old Uncle Q might look like the Cow’s twin brother, but he was still Suspect Number One until a better candidate turned up.

"You took a risk, boy." Quintus’ own smile was indulgent affection. "But it doesn’t appear to have done you any harm."

"None at all. I’ll be riding to Aquae Sulis tomorrow."

"I’m glad to hear it, though Claudia will need a little convincing."

"I’ll leave that to you, sir," Bodie drawled. "She’ll be eating out of your hand before nightfall."

"Don’t be so sure, boy."

Perhaps because he knew Cowley--as much as anyone could--perhaps because he was already 90% sure of Quintus’ involvement, Bodie could see the cool assessment behind the genial exterior. But he would need to keep on reminding himself that the man was not George Cowley.

This became increasingly difficult during the relaxed atmosphere of the semiformal evening meal. Here was Cowley at his most charming; the wryly humorous raconteur who coaxed Claudia out of her sulks over her son’s sudden waywardness, and got a brief smile from the dour Marius. Bodie stayed quiet and listened.

The contrast between the two brothers was striking, and it did not surprise him that Caius looked to Quintus rather than his father. Not that it influenced him at all, but when he thought about it rationally, ignoring time-honoured cliché, Quintus’ potential as a murderer dropped a couple of points. The man already had money, estates, and the time spent on Marius’ business was sandwiched between his own. Also, he had chosen this occasion to announce his forthcoming marriage to a widow of vast wealth and no children to squander it on. Quintus himself had only two daughters to dower from his previous marriage. So what the hell did he need the inheritance for?

Bodie shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Reclining to eat was all very well, but his shoulder and ribs were stiffening. Besides, he wanted privacy and quiet to rethink his theories. As soon as he could do so without causing unwanted questions, Bodie made his excuses and left the dining room. Demetrius was a silent shadow at his heels, and Bodie shot him a sidelong, speculative, glance. Since the man could both obey orders and keep his mouth shut, even against his better judgement, he would be given the doubtful honour of becoming a Doyle substitute.

"Get the pins, bring them along to my room," he said quietly. Demetrius’ sigh sounded more like a groan, but he broke into a trot and turned left where two corridors joined. Bodie took a short cut across the gardens, entering the darkened room with instinctive caution.

By the time the slave returned, he was stripped for bed and lamps were lit, filling the chamber with steady yellow light. Demetrius placed three pieces of metal on the table, and Bodie fitted the broken head to its shank. There was a difference on length of less than half an inch, and the head of the flawed pin was not quite the match with its mate that it should have been. The differences were slight, and a casual glance would not have picked them out. Bodie said nothing, waited for Demetrius to spot it and draw his own conclusions.

"Jupiter!" he spat. "Brennus’ work comes out as like as peas in a pod! That isn’t his making. Somebody replaced...?" His voice tailed off. "Jupiter," he whispered.

"Told you," Bodie said. "Now we find out who."

"How?"

"By listening, my son. Asking careful questions. That’s your job at the moment. We have to eliminate suspects from our enquiries," he went on cunningly, "and we start closest to home. You haven’t eaten yet--go down to the slaves' hall and find out what Quintus’ slaves have to say about their man’s money situation."

"Quintus?" Demetrius yelped, and Bodie clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Keep your voice down, for sake! Yes, him. If the Governor was running this investigation, he would be the chief suspect, and we want to make sure he’s innocent, don't we?"

"Yes, of course."

"But there’s no sense in upsetting him, so be subtle. Very subtle, Demetrius."

"I will."

"You'd better. Report back as soon is you can. Don’t wait ‘til morning. And while you’re at it, check out on Silenus’ expectations from my father’s will."

"Silen--anybody else?" It was a disbelieving croak.

"They’ll do for now, Ask around about enemies I’ve got that I don’t know about. Who I’ve offended, whose wife or daughter I’ve raped, insulted, or ignored. Stuff like that." Demetrius seemed to choke on a combination of amazement and amusement. Bodie fixed him with a chill gaze. "Don’t push your luck," he warned. The slave grinned, and took himself off, He was, Bodie decided, a less than perfect makeshift, but better than nothing.

###

"Caius?" A quiet murmur from the window. "Are you awake?"

"Bloody stupid question." Bodie sat up in the darkness, and a blacker silhouette showed momentarily against the night sky as the garden door opened and closed. Demetrius perched on the edge of the bed and an aroma of wine reached Bodie’s wrinkling nostrils. "Well?"

"Silenus can expect the house in Aquae Sulis and the South Vineyard outside Massilia," he reported. "Quintus’ next wife has a very influential family. He has his eye on a governor's mansion. Most people think Brennus was lucky to get away with his life but that it was strange he let a flawed piece pass, especially as the weight would have told him one was useless. Opinion is that he was drunk."

"So are you," Bodie grunted. "Go on."

"There’s no word of any outlaws or escaped slaves in the area, but there have been some strangers at the native village on the eastern boundary. An unRomanized Briton is a very chancy animal."

"You don’t say," Bodie said, a certain grimness in his tone.

"And I can’t find any enemies. There are some who dislike you, but not enough to want you dead."

A man is known as much for his enemies as for his friends. Caius’ estimation sank again in Bodie’s eyes. Why the hell was he bothering? The pillock was a useless wet-blanket, and anybody who wanted to bump him off, could, as far as he--Bodie--was concerned. As long as he was safely trapped in his wrecked car when it happened. He didn't fancy the idea of sharing a death. Caius could keep that to himself.

"All right, we’ll try the village when we get back from this temple," he said. "Thanks, Demetrius. You didn’t do a bad job. Have you got any theories of your own?"

There was a long silence, then; "I think it might be Silenus. He has nothing but his yearly allowance and he’d like to marry. But he can’t afford it. He sees a woman in Aquae Sulis, the daughter of a baker. With a house of his own, and the income from the vineyard--"

"Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?" Bodie demanded.

"Oh. Didn’t I?"

"No, damn you. For God’s sake go to bed before you fall over. You can tell me anything else you remember in the morning."

Demetrius left, but Bodie couldn’t settle to sleep for a long time. Silenus had suddenly become a serious contender for Suspect No. 1, and he was uncomfortably aware of the many ways of murder a physician had to hand by way of drugs and poisons.

He had half-hoped to awaken to the pain and cramped darkness of the Capri. But he didn’t. Demetrius stumbled over a chair in the grey light and woke him up, but they had little chance to talk. Silenus followed close on the slave’s heels to check over his patient, and more to make conversation than anything else, Bodie enquired about the Temple of Aesculapius. Caius had never visited such an establishment, and did not know the procedure either, so it was a safe question. Silenus smiled, and humoured him.

"You will be bathed," he said, "a small sacrifice will be made, you’ll share a sacred meal with the God and be left to sleep in a cubicle by His altar. In the morning, a priest will listen to your dreams, and from them interpret the treatment Aesculapius deems best for you."

On the surface it seemed harmless enough, but sometimes dreams needed a little help to materialize.

"What’s the recipe for this sacred meal?" he asked.

"That," said Silenus, releasing his wrist, "is between the God and the Priest. I don’t know, and won’t speculate. Well, by the look of you, the ride won’t do you any harm at all. No doubt you’ll be there before the rest of us, so I’ll see you at the house some time today. Take care of him, Demetrius. I’m just getting used to this new Caius the Gods have sent us." Bodie gave him his most saccharine smile, let him get out of the room, then beckoned Demetrius to him.

"This is top priority," he whispered. "Find out what’s in that meal. Someone should know--or have a good idea."

"But--why is it important? You can’t suspect the priests of the God, surely?" The wariness was back in full strength, and Bodie sighed.

"Perish the thought," he said virtuously. "I’d merely like to know what drug they use to induce the dreams."

"They come from the God," the slave said.

"Of course they do," Bodie soothed. "But it’s odds on the door’s opened for him by an hallucinogen of some kind."

"A what?" Clearly the word did not quite translate into what ever language they were supposed to be speaking.

"Never mind. Just do it,"

"Yes, sir," doubtfully.

Bodie had to be content with that. He could not entirely explain the frisson of unease that had shivered through him. Part of it was fear; that somehow it would give Caius the upper hand and evict him from the metaphorical driving seat before he ready to go, and there was no reason for that. After all, he couldn’t have it both ways. But he made sure Demetrius took the axle pins with him, well-hidden in saddle bags among personal belongings. They were evidence, and he wanted them kept safe. Just in case.

###

Mounted on two good horses, Bodie and Demetrius were in Aquae Sulis by midday. The journey was uneventful, but four miles from the town, Bodie’s spine began to creep. They had acquired a shadow.

The road was fairly busy, and casual glances behind failed to pick out anyone who was showing undue interest in them.

But as they turned into the crowded street that led to the house, Bodie looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a face that galvanised him into action. An untidy head of red-brown hair and wide, uneven cheekbones; "Ray!" he yelped, and spun the gelding on its haunches. At the same time he saw the greenish tunic and trousers, and recognised the figure from the deserted hillfort. It had been Doyle who’d fired the stones. Apparently he was as good with a sling as he was with a handgun.

It wasn’t easy forcing the horse through the press of people, but he ignored the yells of abuse, eyes locked on his quarry. After an initial hesitation the man waited for him, a wry twist of a smile on the full lips. It was Ray Doyle, of that Bodie had no doubts. The same green eyes under arched brows, same mismatched features and shaped mouth.

Bodie got within three yards of him, then the man’s gaze slid past him. One hand came up in a half-salute, and he ducked into a narrow alley. By the time Bodie reached the entrance, Doyle was nowhere in sight.

"Damn!" and he would have gone after him had not Demetrius urged his horse between Bodie and the alley’s mouth.

"It was the slinger," the slave said. Then, incredulously; "you know him?"

"Yes."

"I’ve never seen him before. I’d remember a face like that."

"Yeah, well, keep quiet about him," Bodie said. "He’s a friend."

"Friend!" In his agitation, Demetrius forgot his status. "He looked as if he came from beyond the frontier! We should report him to the--"

"No."

"He’s a barbarian, and they’re dangerous, Caius."

"Yes," he agreed succinctly. "So am I."

Demetrius did not answer, and they rode back to the house in a taut silence.

###

The rest of the travelling party did not arrive until dusk, by which time Demetrius was already out gathering information.

He returned in time to clean himself up ready to stand attendance on Bodie during the evening meal. He’d found out little that was new. Quintus had no major debts; Silenus had a few, but those he owed were not concerned that they’d lose their money; no one in Aquae Sulis bore Caius Marcellus a grudge. But Demetrius had seen the Briton again. In fact the man had accosted him outside a taverna.

The meeting had obviously unsettled the slave, and he was reluctant to give an account of it. But a few minutes of Bodie’s autocratic temper changed his mind. The Briton, who had declined to give his name, had some information that Caius Marcellus Niger would find of interest. He would wait for him at a certain inn, a mile from the town on the Lindinis road.

"When?" said Bodie, unsurprised.

"Tonight. I told him you wouldn’t be able to miss the evening meal, as it was virtually a formal banquet. He said he’d wait until midnight--and that you should come alone."

"And if I didn’t go? Did you ask him that?"

"Yes, sir. He just smiled. Told me to tell you that you would regret it, but your kin might not."

A grin spread over Bodie’s face. That sounded like Doyle okay. He could even see the smile that went with it--enough to scare the slave out of a years growth with its aura of menace and not-so-subtle hint of danger. "I’d better go, then, hadn’t I?" he said.

"No, sir!" Demetrius snapped. "It could be a trap."

"He’s had opportunities to kill me before, and hasn’t."

"Yes. Because then it did not suit his purpose. Caius, don’t go."

"If I’m ever in the market for a wet-nurse, I’ll let you know," Bodie said coolly. "At the last course, bring me a message from an old friend just passing through."

"But your father’s guests--"

"Are his, not mine," and he left the room with swaggering grace and a sweep to the purple-edged toga.

###

Demetrius showed initiative. He left Bodie’s side only once early on in the meal, disappeared and reappearing with the self-effacing efficiency of those born to slavery. It was doubtful if anyone other than Bodie knew he’d gone.

As the slaves were serving the final dishes the steward bowed apologetically into the chamber, and brought Bodie a folded note. Suitably irritated, he bemoaned the arrival in the town of an old friend of his III Augustan days, and the man’s thoughtless invitation to a reunion at his lodgings.

"Crass impertinence," said Marius Marcellus. "You will not go at this hour."

"Sir," said Bodie, in tones of mealy-mouthed sweet reason, "he is the son of Julius Claudius Scipio, senator, and nephew of the Governor of Spain. I’ll be back by dawn--and sober--for the appointment with the priests." He waited, dutiful and humble, for the men’s acquiescence. Marius nodded, and he made his farewells to the guests without apparent haste.

Outside the dining room, Demetrius sprinted for the stables, while Bodie followed at a slower pace, shedding the heavy toga like an unwanted chrysalis. By the time he reached the small courtyard, two horses were waiting, and Demetrius carried a hooded riding cloak over his arm. Swords were hidden in the folds.

"You’re not coming," Bodie said, fastening the cloak at his throat.

"Someone must guard your back," the slave said, a stubborn jut to his chin. "Sir."

"I can take care of myself, damn it!" he snapped. "And a bloody-sight better than you can."

"Yes, sir. If I fail in my duty to his one remaining son, your father will have me crucified."

Bodie studied the grim young face, and knew that with or without permission Demetrius would not be far behind him. He scowled. The last thing he wanted was an audience when he and Doyle exchanged information, but-- "All right. But you will do exactly as I say, to the last bloody full-stop, or I’ll crucify you myself. Understood?" From his expression, Bodie guessed that some of the Twentieth Century language was not translating too well, but the slave smiled.

"Yes, sir," he said again, and Bodie swung up onto the nearest horse.

"Don’t you forget it," he growled, and led the way out into the street.

###

They did not ride straight to the South gate, but initially headed deeper into the town. The streets were by no means empty, despite the hour, and as soon as Bodie was satisfied they were not being followed, they turned for the gate.

Once clear of the walls, Bodie pushed his mount to a gallop. The road was good, the night clear under moon and stars, and it was not far off midnight. He would be lucky if he made it by the appointed time. After all, he remembered, he hadn't reached London. But then, it wasn’t raining, and horses don’t aquaplane.

The pace was a reckless one, but Bodie seemed to have the luck of devil on his shoulder. The horses plunged into the inn yard just as a familiar figure appeared in the torch-lit doorway.

"Stay here," Bodie said, reining in and holding the slave’s eyes with a grim stare. "Don't interfere, and make sure no one listens in." Demetrius nodded, and Bodie rode forward.

"You’re late," the Briton said. His cloak was thrown back from his right shoulder, leaving hand and arm free to rest on his sword-hilt. The green gaze was distant, coolly appraising.

"Unavoidably detained," Bodie drawled, swinging a leg over his horse’s neck and sliding off. "I’ve been expecting you for days. What kept you, for God’s sake?"

Uneven features smoothed into a granite mask and his knuckles whitened on the sword hilt. "Unavoidably detained?" He mimicked the drawl, and Bodie chuckled.

"Better late than never. All right, Raymond, old son, what’ve you got for me?"

"My name is Rianorix."

"Of course it is, Come on, Ray, quit playing the dumb native. I haven’t got all night."

The hesitation was slight. "Neither have I."

There was a waiting tension in his oppo lean frame, and Bodie suddenly remembered Demetrius. "Don’t worry about him, he’s house-trained. Blind and deaf, if I say so."

Doyle shrugged, but the wariness was still apparent. "I'll take your word for it," he said. The familiar voice had an accent, but Bodie couldn’t place it. "How much do you know?"

"Quite a bit, but I think it’s only two-thirds of the script. I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of suspects; Silenus, the family witch-doctor and Quintus Marcellus, Marius’ brother. You won’t believe who Uncle looks like--George’s twin." Doyle did not seem to be impressed. He frowned slightly, as if he was having trouble understanding what was said. But before Bodie could make any comment the frown became a mirthless smile.

"You’re close, then. Very close." It was a sibilant murmur, and Bodie felt a prickle of alarm. Doyle was in a dangerous mood. Clearly he had let the whole crazy situation get to him, and you shouldn’t do that with a dream. Stupid bastard always did have too much imagination for his own good.

"You’ve cracked it?" he demanded. "How? Who?"

"Silenus," Doyle said, and Bodie let out his breath in a gasp of relief. He had not realised quite how important it was to him that the Cowley look-alike should be in the clear.

"Thank God for that. I’d hate to have to turn the Cow in. How did you find out?"

"I have a kinsman, a travelling smith. Silenus commissioned an axle pin, even provided a sample for copying. But he wanted it flawed and brittle."

‘That part I’d already managed for myself," Bodie said. "And with Caius out of the way, no other son or grandson, and Marius more or less dependent on him--the old bugger would probably adopt him! He’d get the lot, near as damn it."

"It seems likely." Doyle’s eyes were locked on his face, gaze curiously intent. "But first, you will have to die." The silence stretched to a moment of singing tension, and the breathing of the sweating horses was harsh in the night. "You should take care," he continued. "Tomorrow you go to the temple? It might be better to avoid it if you can."

"Why?"

"Physicians, priests of Aesculapius, they have a common trade. And one fungus is much like another when it’s dried and powdered."

"Fungus?"

"The Red Dreamer. It is sacred to many Gods. And the Deathcap. They both grow well in this country."

"Bloody hell."

"I don’t say for certain. I don’t trust the priests, but I know nothing against them. On the other hand, your visit to them could cover anything Silenus might give you on your return. It is common knowledge that the blow to your head has changed you. There would be little surprise if it killed you before long, and so who would think of poison? They’d only know that even Aesculapius could not heal you. Or perhaps that the God drove the demon from your head, and its going killed you."

"Bloody hell," Bodie said again. "And in this day and age he can get away with it. Well, old son, we don’t have the rest of the mob to back us up, here in the Wild and Woolly West. So--" He paused. He was a firm believer in the premise that attack was the best form of defence, and pushed into a potentially life-or-death situation such as this, instinct said strike first, and strike hardest. And Doyle knew him as well as Bodie knew himself.

"It is your life," said the quiet voice.

Kill before he kills you.

"Yeah," said Bodie. "What about you?"

"Me?" Startlement showed through the mask.

"Yes. You. Where are you staying? How can I contact you? Sod it, I'd give my right arm for a gun and a couple of r/ts." He did not get an answer, just a blank stare. "Well? Damn it, Ray, we’re a team, aren't we?"

"It’ll be safest if I contact you. It would arouse less interest than a Roman looking for a Durotrigean."

"A what?"

"My tribe."

"Oh. But if I need to get hold of you in a hurry?"

"I’ll be close at hand."

"What the hell are you being so cagy about? Demetrius? I told you, he’s virtually part of the family, bloody well-trained, and accepts me as Caius without any questioning! So pack in the British Resistance act and cough up!"

"The Retiarius, behind the Basilica," Doyle said. "Maelwyn, the stable boy, can find me."

"Okay." Bodie knew it would have to do. There wasn't enough time to convince his partner that the slave was not a security risk. He would have preferred, as well, to have closer working with Doyle. They were, after all, on their own and should stick together, dream or no dream. But he did not get a chance to say so.

"I doubt if Silenus will delay long," Doyle said, "Unless you gain time by somehow avoiding the priests."

"Don’t worry about him," Bodie said. "I can take care of our friendly medicine man. I’m more concerned about how the dickens we’re going to get out of this crazy situation."

Doyle did not answer. He moved away, fading into the darkness like a night creature, and Bodie resisted the urge to hold him back. Demetrius rejoined him, letting out his breath in a gusty sigh.

"Caius, sir--let’s get away from here?"

"All right. And for pity’s sake, stop panicking. You’re as bad as some bloody maiden aunt." He mounted his horse, turned back to the road with the slave crowding his own animal close on the gelding’s heels.

"Sir, I don’t see how you can know him. You must be mistaken." The words came out in a hissing whisper, as if he feared Doyle would materialize out of nowhere and silence him.

"Don’t be daft. I know him. Never mind how, when or where. He’s okay, is Doyle."

"He said his name is Rianorix."

"Yes. Here. Just take my word for it. I’m not going to explain."

"You can’t trust him," Demetrius persisted, "He’s a Briton--a Durotrigean--everyone knows--"

"I trust him," Bodie snapped. "Shuttup."

"Caius." The slave leaned over, caught his wrist. "I’ve been with you since we were four years old. For twenty years I’ve been at your side, going where you go, seeing who you see. This is only your second visit to Britannia. That man is dangerous. He is an enemy. Where did you first meet him? By all the Gods, Caius, when and how could that barbarian ever have given you cause to trust him with your life?"

Bodie threw off the hard grip. "Don’t push your luck!" he snapped. "Twenty years or not, you’re presuming too much. Back off, Demetrius." The stare of concentrated menace he fixed on the man’s face had as much effect as the barked order. The gelding was pulled back hard enough to send it plunging across the road, head thrown up against the jabbed bit.

Bodie rode the rest of the way in a morose silence. He missed his oppo’s often acerbic company. They shared the same black humour, the same self-reliant efficiency--and he missed the comfortable awareness that with Doyle close at hand, his back was well-guarded.

Maybe he should do a straight swap. Demetrius for Doyle. He’d have fun explaining that to Marius Marcellus. The old autocrat still ruled household and family with the proverbial rod of iron. Yes, he’d slipped up there. Right from the start he should have dreamed Doyle as his body-slave. On the other hand, exactly how much control did he have over script, casting and production of this particular epic?

Just before they turned into the stable yard, Bodie reined in, glanced round at Demetrius’ sullen mask. "Okay, you don’t trust him," he said quietly. "I do, and it should be enough for you. But forget that. He put the finger on Silenus. How do you feel about that?"

The slave shifted uneasily on the saddlepad. "I believe him in that," he muttered. "He’s got his own reasons, I’m sure, but that at least rings true, and it fits our suspicions. You’re going to tell your father?"

"No, Not yet. I want more than just the axle pins and Ray’s blacksmith. Think I’ll have a word with Cow--Quintus first. Pity he doesn’t remember being our George."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Was he staying here tonight, or going back to his own place?"

"I think he was staying. Do you want to see him now?"

"Yes. Try and get to him without raising the household, and ask him to come to my room."

###

The lamps were lit in his bedchamber, and he entered warily, hand on the knife at his belt. Silenus sat in a chair by the bed, head bent over a scroll, and he looked up when the door closed with a click under Bodie’s light shove.

"Well, Caius, you’re earlier than I expected." Silenus was smiling, but his eyes were watchful, checking Bodie from head to foot and back again in a practised sweep.

Bodie produced his best choir-boy smile. "And I’m sober," he said." Nary a drop has passed my lips."

"Good. I was afraid I'd have to purge you."

"Not bloody likely," Bodie snorted. "Will you be coming along tomorrow?"

"Yes. Oh, I won’t go into the temple with you, of course, but I’ll be waiting to hear the treatment the God chooses, and to bring you home."

"That's reassuring," he drawled. "I’d better catch up on my sleep, hadn’t I?" It wasn’t the subtlest of hints, and the physician stood up.

"How are you feeling after all your activity?" Silenus asked.

"Fine," Bodie said. "Personally, I think this jaunt is a waste of time. I haven’t had a headache for days, I’ve remembered anything I’d forgotten, and all parts of me are in perfect working order."

"Perhaps. But it’ll be best to make sure, won’t it? Sleep well, Caius. Oh, yes--no breakfast for you, nor any wine. You can drink water or fruit juice, but that’s all."

"Thanks," said Bodie, disgusted. "You’re a right little ray of sunshine, you are." Suddenly he was impatient with the whole charade. He’d be damned if he’d wait around for the next hit attempt playing the wide-eyed innocent. This particular ants-nest needed a few good pokes with a stick. "Silenus," he said, and the physician paused, hand on the doer latch. "Are you aware the chariot was tampered with?"

"What?" Blank incomprehension showed briefly before Silenus replaced his professional facade. "In what way?"

"One axle pin was replaced with a faulty one. I’ve put the broken bits together, compared them with the other pin and others in the store back at the villa," he said, improvising smoothly. "Brennus could turn them out like so many peas in a pod. The pin that snapped was a pretty good copy, but not good enough."

Silenus walked slowly back into the room, his eyes fastened on Bodie’s face. "Are you absolutely sure of that, Caius?"

"Yes. Going to tell me I’m imagining it, friend? You can’t argue with cold iron."

"True, but it seems a complicated--and inefficient--way of killing you. Which failed, in fact."

"Thanks mainly to Demetrius, I’d guess," Bodie countered. "What would be a safer method, Silenus? Poison?" a barbed question.

"Probably, but it wouldn't be easy to--" He broke off, eyes widening with shock as he picked up the implications. "You don’t think that I--"

‘Information received from a reliable source."

"That’s ridiculous! In the God’s name, Caius!" Silenus’ face was pale in the lamplight. "What reason could I possibly have?"

So Bodie told him, and watched his pallor grow.

"No," Silenus whispered. "Caius, you're wrong, believe me--" He reached for Bodie’s shoulders, and was blocked in one swift movement. At the same time Demetrius’ arm locked around the man’s throat and a knife pressed against Silenus’ ribs. Fear replaced the shock in the physician’s face, and he froze. "In my God’s name," he croaked, "I swear--"

"Of course you do,’ Bodie said mildly. "Didn’t expect a signed and sealed confession right away. Let him go, Demetrius."

"What?" the slave gasped. "But--"

"Let him go!"

Demetrius released him and stepped back. Silenus staggered, slumped into the chair, hands over his face.

"Silenus," Bodie continued, I’ve got evidence, statements, witnesses enough to convict you half a dozen times over--"

"No!"

"--and it’s tucked away in a safe place with someone who’ll make sure my father and the Governor will get it if I die by any cause before you do. He’ll take payment for it, too. He’s a vindictive bastard. So it’s in your own interest to keep me alive, Silenus, old friend. That way you just might inherit something worth having."

The physician dragged in a shuddering breath. "You’re so wrong!" he whispered. "Caius, please listen to me. I don’t know who gave you my name, but they lied! I’m a doctor--I vowed on the God’s altar to preserve life, not to take it, And I have never broken that vow. Not even when to shorten a sick man’s life might seem a mercy!"

Bodie studied him, eyes narrowed. There was a certain ring to the words, and Silenus was either a bloody good actor, or--Demetrius moved, the knife-hand dropping to his side. Clearly he was impressed. But then, he hadn’t trusted Doyle to begin with.

"Ever thought of taking up acting?" Bodie drawled. "Save the rhetoric. You might need it for the Governor. Out."

Silenus drew himself up with weary dignity. "Your evidence is sound enough, but only your witnesses point to me and they are liars," he said, "Whoever wants you dead wants me as the scapegoat. Think on that, Caius Marcellus." He left the room, an echo of his time with the legions in the set of his shoulders and the proud carriage of his head.

"Caius?" Demetrius said quietly. "Quintus Marcellus isn’t here. What--"

"Shuttup. Walls have ears, Get to bed, we’ll talk tomorrow on the way to the temple."

"But--"

"Hop it! And thanks," he added as the slave reached the door. He got an uncertain smile, then the door closed silently between them.

###

That night Bodie dreamed. He lay in the wreckage of the car, and Silenus stood on the bank above him, silhouetted against the night sky like an archaic statue.

"Truth in lies and lies in truth," the man said. "You are the scapegoat." Then the marble cracked and shattered, showering him with shards, filling his eyes with bitter dust. He squeezed them shut, and his mind was filled with the after-image of the proud, tired head.

But he awoke to the painted bedchamber, rested and alert and fired with a grim determination. Silenus had been effectively countered, if he was guilty. If he wasn’t, then he was still in danger, and so too was Doyle. He might have been fed with false information, and whoever had given him Silenus’ name might be a lead back to the mastermind behind it all. If Silenus wasn’t guilty. So he wore a sword hidden under his cloak, and let himself be ushered outside by Quintus.

There was a litter waiting for him in the courtyard. He did not argue. He had already decided how he would avoid the temple, and it would be easier to slip out of a litter and lose himself in the crowded streets than to get away on horseback.

But there was no chance to talk with Demetrius. The only hint he could give him was a name, "Maelwyn," he breathed in the slave’s ear a as he adjusted the drapes on the litter. There was a flash of recognition in Demetrius’ eyes, then he withdrew to his place at the litter’s side. Silenus was behind them in the small procession, but he did not speak, and his face was a pale, grim mask.

###

Even the Governor’s chariot would have had trouble bullying through the packed streets, and Bodie took the first chance offered. They were held up at an intersection, and he was out of the litter and into the crowd before the slaves or physician could guess his intentions. At the same time, Demetrius melted away in the other direction.

Anonymous in the bustling humanity, Bodie picked a convoluted route to The Retiarius taverna. Even so, he was there before his slave, and he ducked into the busy yard.

A skinny brat with straggling red-blond hair tied back with a leather thong was tipping water into the long trough, shoving his way through horses and mules.

"Maelwyn?" said Bodie, and flipped a coin in the air.

"Yeah," the boy agreed, eyes on the money.

"I need to talk to Rianorix." The eyes tore themselves from the disc of metal, fastened on his face. "Urgently," Bodie continued. "Can you hide me around here?"

"Hayloft." Maelwyn was obviously a youth of few words. Bodie tossed the coin to him, and it was snatched out of the air.

"A slave called Demetrius might turn up. Bring him to me. If anyone else asks for Caius Marcellus, you don’t know who they’re talking about." He spun another coin to be caught, and the bright head nodded. "Get Rianorix here as soon as you can, and there’ll be a couple more in it for you."

"Come on," the boy said, glanced swiftly around and sidled into the stable block. A ladder at the far end led up to the loft, and Bodie followed him up into the fragrant dimness. "If you have to get away," Maelwyn said, "the tiles swing up on a frame, and you go along the roof to the alley wall." Then he disappeared down the ladder.

There was a brief two-way argument in a liquid language Bodie didn’t know. It ended in the thud of a blow and a wail of protest. Maelwyn snapped what appeared to be either an insult or an order, and the second boy snuffled out to the yard. Bodie grinned. Doyle had picked his minion well.

###

Bodie had a long wait, and by dusk was beginning to wonder what had happened to Demetrius, let alone Maelwyn and Doyle. But eventually the slave’s voice came from below, Maelwyn’s lighter tones counter-pointing him. Then the familiar head appeared, and he clambered into the loft, bringing with him a horn lantern.

"Over here," Bodie said quietly. "What kept you?"

"Nothing." Demetrius joined him in the cave he’d made in the hay, hung the lantern on a hook in a beam, "I thought I’d better watch a while, see what they would do about your disappearance."

"And?"

"Silenus looked as if he was going to throw up." Demetrius shifted uncomfortably. "I sent a message to him saying you’d had a memory-lapse and that I was following you to keep you safe. You seemed to be heading for the town gate, maybe returning to the villa."

"Good lad. You should have been a politician. Any sign of Ray?"

"The Briton? No." He sounded relieved, and Bodie chuckled.

"Pity. I don’t suppose you thought to bring any food with you? My stomach’s beginning to think my throat’s cut. No one followed you, I hope?"

"No. I doubled and twisted enough to lose myself, let alone anybody else. Caius, if it is not Silenus, then who?"

"We don’t know that it isn’t, yet. My money’s still on him. Shuttup." Faint sounds from the roof might have been pigeons on the tiles, but then the frame moved all but silently on its greased hinges.

Doyle’s lean body slid through the gap, and he landed catlike on his feet. Demetrius' knife was half-drawn, but the green eyes spared him only one measuring glance before turning to Bodie.

"You’ve stirred a wasps’ nest," he said, a note in his voice that was something like the familiar mixture of irritation and amusement.

"Yes, well, thought I’d liven up the proceedings a little. Had a chat with Silenus last night."

"Oh?" A waiting stillness settled over Doyle. "He confessed?"

"Uh, no. Raymond, old son, you might have dropped a clanger. How did you know it was Silenus who contacted you?" There was a short silence; Bodie could almost hear the cogs whirring under his partner’s tangle of curls.

"Caradoc told me his name. Why?"

"There's a chance that the poor bastard was set up as a fall-guy." Shutters closed behind Doyle’s eyes, almost as if he had not understood the terms. So it lost something in the translation.

"You don’t believe me?" he asked coolly.

"Don’t be bloody daft! Someone could have sold you--and Caradoc--a pup. There’s no law that says he’s got to use his own name, is there? Come on, Ray. You’re the one who’s the ex-copper, use your loaf, for God’s sake! Did you ever see him?"

"Yes, several times."

"Okay. What did he look like?" There was another long pause.

"My height," Doyle said after a while. His gaze was intent, end he leaned against a roof strut, ostensibly relaxed with his thumbs hooked into his belt. But his hands were very close to sword and dagger. "Aged about fifty or so, blue eyes, thin fair hair--"

"Quintus?" Bodie gasped. Then fury swamped him. "The crafty sod! I was right the first time!"

"What will you do?" Doyle sounded almost disinterested.

"Cut his bloody heart out!" he spat.

"That's a little--hasty, perhaps," his partner observed. "Wouldn’t it be better to gather all your proof first, go to your father and the governor with it?"

"All right, Professor!" he snarled. "I’ll do it by the book! Up to a point. I owe Silenus an apology, as well. But I’m going to have words with dear old Uncle Quintus if it’s the last thing I do!" He started for the trapdoor, but found Doyle there before him.

"You’re too hot," he said. "Calm down, and I’ll make sure the way is clear." He didn’t wait for an answer, but disappeared down the ladder.

"Quintus Marcellus," Demetrius said blankly. "Jupiter! But--why? Surely he has all a man could need? He’s easily as rich as your father, and with his marriage, there be more."

"Maybe he’s just hungry," Bodie growled. "Some people are never satisfied. No matter how much they’ve got, they want more. Didn't you say something about a governorship? That takes money, rank and political clout, doesn’t it?"

"Yes," Demetrius whispered. There was a harshness in the single word that spoke of an aching throat, and Bodie eyed him warily. Admittedly, he’d known the old bastard for twenty-odd years, and presumably liked him, but there was no need to go overboard.

Doyle’s head and shoulders appeared briefly. "It’s safe," he said. "I can’t provide horses, you’ll have to go on foot."

"Doesn't matter," Bodie said. "Come on, let’s go."

###

The streets were dark, intermittently lit by travellers’ torches, and Bodie was glad that Demetrius had had the gumption to bring along the lantern. He trusted to the slave’s knowledge of their way as well, the night had changed the aspect of the only vaguely familiar daytime streets.

Rain clouds were gathering, deepening the dark of the sky, and the first few drops struck cold on Bodie’s skin as they paused at the rear gate of Marius’ house. There was a growing feeling he’d either missed or forgotten something of vital importance, but he couldn’t pin it down. So he left it for now. There was enough to concern him without looking for more.

The building was mostly in darkness, and the gates were locked. Demetrius hammered on the wood, and a small panel slid back.

"Comus, it’s me," the slave said. "The master’s with me--keep quiet and let us in."

"I’ll wait out here," Doyle murmured in Bodie’s ear. "It will save explanations if a Durotrigean isn’t with you."

"Okay." At the first sign of trouble, he knew Doyle would be in like a one-man army.

The gate was jerked open and he slipped inside, Demetrius on his heels. "Where’s my father?" he demanded, over-riding the watchman’s thanksgiving.

"Gone back to the villa, master. They thought you would be going there--"

"Is Silenus with him? And Quintus?"

"The physician is, sir, but Marcellus Scapula is here still. He--"

"Good. Have three horses saddled. Demetrius, wait here."

"Sir--"

"Don’t argue!"

Bodie ran across the yard, slammed through doors into the small garden. There was a light behind one shuttered window. Quintus was still up.

He entered the man’s room without ceremony, but Quintus did not seem surprised.

"Good evening," he said calmly. "I trust you are recovered?"

"Nothing to recover from." Bodie matched him for coolness. "I went to meet an old friend. He had some interesting information for me."

"Oh?"

"About axle pins, a smith called Caradoc, and Silenus."

"You amaze me."

"Yeah. I can imagine. The trouble was, he told me Silenus was fiftyish, blue-eyed and fair haired. So where did he gain twenty years and bleach overnight?" It was eerie staring into Cowley’s cold eyes, about to accuse him of attempted murder, and with proof aplenty to back it up. Again he had the mental nudge that he’d missed something, but pushed it aside. He’d deal with that later.

"Caius, you seem to me to be deranged," Quintus said. He might have been commenting on the weather.

"I have all the evidence I need for a court of law. Witnesses, signed statements, axle pins, the lot."

"I see." Quintus seemed to accept the bluff. His eyes dropped to the book in his lap. "What are you going to do?"

"Make sure Marius knows what you’ve been up to, and why." He drew his sword, rested the blade on the table, inches sway from paper and inkstand. "You are going to write a letter, friend, and after that I suggest you take the traditional Roman way out."

"You expect me to agree to that?" There was an imperious lift to the man’s chin, and Bodie beamed down at him.

"You and the Cow have a lot in common," he said. "But he’s got all the proper motives. Write."

"Caius, I have money and influence, I can place you in posts that would gain you--"

"No chance. I won’t tell you again." The sword blade came to rest against the man’s neck, and Bodie leaned a little weight on it. A small trickle of blood stained the cream-white collar of Quintus' tunic. He reached out, drew paper towards him, dipped quill into ink.

The dark lines grew on the paper, and Bodie read it over the older man’s shoulder. Terse and concise, it laid out the details and motives in almost military clarity, and he nodded as Quintus signed his name at the bottom.

"Seal it," he ordered, and watched as the hot wax splashed like blood and Quintus’ seal ring pressed into it. "Good," Bodie said. "The choice is up to you, of course. If you want to go to trial, you can. But you’ll stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting away with it, Tough luck, Quintus. You gave it a bloody good shot, but it was your bad luck I woke up in the middle of it." He took the sheet of paper and folded it, tucking it safely inside his tunic. Bodie gave the man a brief salute with the sword, and ran back to the yard.

Demetrius held three horses, and mounted one as he approached.

"Ray!" Bodie yelled, snatching the nearest reins. Doyle appeared in the gate-way, poised and wary. "I’ve got it. Grab yourself a horse, we’re heading for the villa."

"Marcellus Scapula?" he said, swinging up onto a restless grey.

"In his room, contemplating tradition," Bodie grinned. "Come on, let’s go."

With a clatter of hooves, the three horses surged out of the yard, but Doyle reined in at the first intersection.

"Go on," he said. "I'll make sure he sends no one after you. I’ll catch you up on the way."

"All right." Bodie wasn’t happy about it, but Quintus was a chancy bastard. He might have one last try at them.

Demetrius was already kicking on, and by the time Bodie rejoined him, Doyle was out of sight.

###

Once again the weather cooperated. As they passed under the gate tower, the clouds lifted and moonlight painted the road for them. The cambered surface on its high bank was good, with a minimum of potholes, Below, the drainage ditches rattled with flowing water, legacy of a recent storm, Behind them, rain began to creep up from the west, curtaining the dark bulk of the town.

They made good time, varying their pace between walk and canter. There was no sign of Doyle, though, and Bodie was tempted to turn back. It was possible that his oppo had bitten off more than he could chew.

"We'll give the horses a breather in a minute," he said. Demetrius nodded, and they pushed on at a canter.

Their mounts were tough animals, little more than ponies, and they did not tire easily. Then Demetrius' horse screamed and stumbled to its knees, throwing the slave over its neck. He landed in an awkward sprawl, but was on his feet as Bodie swung round. The horse was also up, but its near foreleg hung broken below the knee.

"Are you okay?" Bodie demanded.

"Yes, just winded. Keep going, Caius. I’ll follow on foot," He drew his knife as he spoke, whispered something and cut his horse’s throat.

Bodie hesitated, then nodded. "Ray’ll give you a lift," he said, "and I’ll send someone back with another horse."

Demetrius smiled up at him. "Take care," he said, but Bodie scarcely heard him. He was already urging his gelding on.

###

Half an hour later, as near as he could judge, hooves drummed in the distance behind him. Bodie glanced back, hut couldn’t see far. Bands of heavy mist drifted across the road, glowing faintly in the moonlight. The sounds came closer, the swift beat of a single horse, running. Doyle? He did not check his own pace until another backward glance showed him the grey and the familiar silhouette crouched over its mane.

"Did you see Demetrius?" he called, reining in. White teeth flashed in a grin.

"Yes," said Doyle. "I saw him."

"Poor bugger’s got a long walk," Bodie gave a rueful smile.

"He isn’t walking." It was a confident drawl, and warning bells clamoured through his head. Suddenly he could see himself greeting Doyle at the inn, could see the man’s tension and wariness; not because of Demetrius, but because of himself and his casual assumption of familiarity. He saw the non-reaction to the Quintus-Cowley likeness, saw the masks, heard all the momentary hesitations—

With startling abruptness Doyle drove his horse forward. The grey’s shoulder struck Bodie’s mount, sending it staggering, rearing. With no stirrups, Bodie was not a good enough rider to stay in place as his horse plunged away. He half-jumped, half-fell, stumbled on the edge of the road and slid down the mud-slick bank. The grey followed him down, and he rolled desperately to avoid the pale hooves, splashing through water.

Somehow he managed to scrabble to his feet, semi-stunned and disoriented. They’d played him like a fish on a bloody hook, steering him where they wanted him from the moment Doyle appeared on the scene right up to that last confrontation with Quintus. Of course the old bastard had given in so easily. He’d known damn well that Doyle would do his dirty work for him--Demetrius--poor bastard--he wouldn’t have stood a chance--fury and the acid pain of betrayal goaded Bodie into action. He lunged at the mounted man, and Doyle swung down to meet his charge on foot.

Vertigo slowed Bodie, and he failed to block the hands that caught him, wrestled him down. He fought, threshing and twisting, but his body would not obey him and he was held, pinned. Water roared in his ears, washed over his face to choke in nose and throat, and above him the moonlit mask of Doyle’s face was smiling hate as he drowned.

"Take it easy!" Hands clutched at him, the narrow bite of fingers bruising into his upper arms. "Mad bastard--can’t you give him anything?"

"Shift over." A stranger’s voice. The hands let go, and a needle stung in his arm, an insignificant pain beside the agony that raged in mind and body. Water still sluiced over his face--drowning him--then it was gone, though he could hear the drumming rush of it nearby. Bodie blinked his eyes open, got an odd, inverted picture of Doyle’s strained and anxious features, heavy curls plastered wetly to his skull. He glared up at him, loathing and contempt fighting the drug in his veins.

"Judas--" he croaked.

"Yeah, sure." Doyle did not argue, and Bodie's world became fuzzy at the edges. It did not fade though, and he became aware of bright arc lights, flashing blue lamps, bustling activity of men in fluorescent waterproofs, stark blackness of tortured shadows--Hieronymus Bosch on a bad day--

Torn metal shrieked as the door pillar was twisted away, and the depressed roof peeled back to give him a better view of the tarpaulin spread above the car to keep off the rain. Beyond the shelter it fell in a solid sheet. "You’ll be out of here in a minute," Doyle said quietly. "Hang on, sunshine."

Some of the raging emotion in Bodie began to die. "What--" he started.

"Save your breath. If this tarp blows away again, you’ll cop the Second Deluge right in the chops. You’re okay, just strained muscles, concussion, and maybe a cracked rib or two. You’re not damaged. Yet."

"What’s that mean?" he coughed.

"Wait ‘til Cowley sees what you’ve done to the car." Doyle’s smile was awry, shaky with relief, and Bodie felt a light touch on his shoulder, "He’s going to kill you for sure."

###

Concludes in The Janus #2 - Leap In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone suspects I invented the name of Rianorix, it belonged to at least two Real People:  
> “Rianorix was of the Elder Chiefs political party and was a kinsman of Adiatorix, the Chief of the Iceni tribe. Rianorix backed Adiatorix in his campaigns against the Demetae and other rival Briton tribes until his natural death in 264 BC.”  
> Another instance of the name was found on a Roman tombstone discovered near Maryport, Cumbria, UK.


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